"Well, ya act like to me you're tryin' to make trouble. Ya order Old Fashioneds, 'n then ya yell about highballs. What's comin' off here?"
"Nothing," Simon said patiently, "is coming off here. I'm simply trying to get what I ordered."
"Ya realize I'll hafta pay for this, don't ya?" the waiter demanded.
"I'll pay for them," Simon said in the same gentle voice. "If you made a mistake, it won't cost you anything. Just bring us three Old Foresters — highballs."
"And what's gonna happen to these drinks?"
"That," the Saint said, "I don't know. You may rub them into the bartender's hair, for all of me."
The waiter lifted his lip.
"Lissen, the bartender's my brother-in-law."
The Saint's lips tightened.
"Then rub them into his back. Will you get our drinks?"